Windswept

by Julie Carobini

  Wade sat back, a triumphant smile on his face. He looked as if he believed he had already convinced her of the power of social media. "I can't believe your brother never mentioned to me that your business was started by a simple photograph." He leaned toward her. "He does know how your business came to be, correct?"

  Sophia thought for a moment. "Actually, I'm not sure that he does. The subject never came up."

  Wade smacked the table, his mouth open in surprise. Though she believed him to be as much as twenty years her senior, give or take, he reminded her of a little boy who had just discovered the joys of Fortnite—or the video game du jour.

  Her waiter appeared, his voice shaky. "May I get you something, sir?"

  "Yes, as a matter of fact, I'd like a large iced coffee to go," Wade said. "And that slap on the table was not meant for you."

  "Yes, sir."

  "I think he meant it for me," Sophia said, teasing.

  Wade wagged his pointer finger at her. "Not really. I just love a good challenge."

  The waiter wavered, rocking on the balls of his feet, as if wondering if he should stay or bolt. "Ma'am?"

  "Nothing more for me. And please, call me Sophia. I'm Jackson's sister and I'll be living at the inn for a time."

  "Yes, ma—I mean, Sophia. My name is Ryan. If there is anything else that you need, please let me know." He turned to Wade. "I will return in a moment with your coffee."

  After he'd gone, Sophia quirked her head in Wade's direction. "I think you scared him."

  "Really?" He leaned across the table, catching Sophia's gaze with his. "And what do you think of me, Sophia? Do you think I am ... frightening?"

  She swallowed back against the flush in her cheeks. "I hardly think you're frightening, Wade. Though, perhaps, a little intimidating. That poor waiter was trembling."

  His smile grew broader. He leaned back and surveyed the room before landing his gaze back on her. "I can accept intimidating," he said. "Besides, if I'm going to help you negotiate a manufacturing contract, I'll need to have intimidation in my back pocket."

  She scoffed. "I don't think that will be necessary, Mr. Prince."

  Ryan returned with iced coffee in a to-go cup, then scurried off.

  Wade's eyes held a question. "Jackson asked me to stop by his office. Why don't I ring you when I'm ready to leave, say, in a half hour or so? Will that give you enough time?"

  She stood. "I look forward to it." On her way back up to the room, Sophia asked herself over and over again: What have I agreed to?

  Christian paced the green-blue pattern of the carpet in his suite. Why had he waited this long to play back that voicemail? How long had it been? Weeks? A knife twisted at the base of his neck, metaphorically speaking maybe, but it might as well have been real as far as he could tell. The sharp pain shot through his neck and up into his head, and there did not appear to be a thing he could do about it.

  He glanced at his open computer screen, his curser blinking, coaxing him back to write the scene he'd left splayed open. He'd been writing the hero's point of view, something that usually came quite easy for him. But today he'd become stumped. Not that he didn't understand what Nickolas thought about the graceful being from the sea who dazzled him. No, he had a quite good idea of what the man was thinking ... but how to convey those emotions with mere words?

  Instead, he had allowed himself to stop the flow, to interrupt the world of avengers and hawks that had been writhing and swelling within his mind since early morning. He'd taken a swig of water and visited the bathroom, and on his way back, his eyes caught sight of his cellphone, that voicemail waiting.

  What did that windbag want from him now? Hadn't they already said all that needed saying?

  He'd listened to the message only long enough to recognize the grating rasp of his ex-agent's voice. Burns Golden called only when he wanted something, even if that something was nothing more than to badger Christian to perform better. Write faster. Produce content in rapid succession, each story better than the first.

  He frowned. He was no longer beholden to Burns's schedule. Burns had taken care of that with one well-placed punch that had both made headlines and caused his agent to lop him off from his roster like a chicken's head at dinnertime.

  So he'd listened to the full message, this time his sense of curiosity stronger than his desire to fully eliminate Burns from his life. Now, as he stood hovering over his computer, he wished he could simply forget the voicemail's contents and dive back into the story that had been causing him to lose sleep the past few days.

  Instead, Christian sat in front of his computer, opened a browser, and logged into his Facebook account. He rarely checked Facebook anymore, deeming it a soon-to-be relic. However, not everyone felt the same disconnect with the social media site and it appeared that someone he knew well had inadvertently let his secret slip.

  Even if he were to ask her to delete the post—something he planned to do—the damage had already been done.

  His fingers flew across the keyboard and then he scrolled. And scrolled. And scrolled more. There. His cover designer's name beside a post with heart and happy face emojis embedded in it.

  So excited to show off my latest cover design for a very important author! I can't disclose his name here (which is why there's a black mark across the top), but isn't the cover divine??

  And there was his cover. The painting he'd commissioned, the embellishments he'd asked for, and the title. Everything but his name.

  Christian groaned. Marci ... He'd plucked her from a stack of recommended cover designers because he'd seen her work and it had impressed him. Until recently, she'd been employed by a publishing house that, by all accounts, had managed to stay afloat.

  But that had been marketing. Or, he'd guessed, a straight-out lie. As Heidi Klum said on Project Runway, "One day you're in, and the next? You're out." Unfortunately for Marci and others on the editorial and design teams, they were all out. Without even a day's notice.

  The publishing house's loss had been his gain—at least until she'd made an error in judgment to "out" his new book on Facebook before he’d had a chance to announce it to his readers himself. He had hopes for this book to relaunch his career, but had yet to plan how that would all happen. Marci’s post had complicated that process and he wasn’t sure what to do about it. A knock on the door interrupted Christian's plans to take a midnight flight out of the country ...

  A second knock, more like a pounding, hurried him along. "Just a minute!" Christian opened the door to find Thomas, a valet, standing next to a cart full of boxes. "Yes?"

  * * *

  Thomas stood there like a reed, his chin lifted, making Christian think he either had a question or wanted to clock him with an uppercut. Weird vibe from that guy, for sure.

  "Can I help you?" Christian’s gaze slid to the cart full of shipping boxes.

  Thomas frowned and looked down at the call slip in his hands. "Wait."

  Christian shifted and crossed his arms.

  Patches of red enflamed Thomas's cheeks. "Looks like I have the wrong door. These are for Ms. Riley." He paused and finally looked up. "Sorry."

  "No problem." He should have shut the door and gone back to the task at hand—dealing with the angry voicemail and the cover that had stirred his former agent's ire—but curiosity piqued him. Besides, Christian convinced himself, Sophia might need help moving those heavy-looking boxes around her room. He certainly didn't want to see her stuck paying the valet to stick around when he could do it.

  When Thomas's knocks on Sophia's door went unheeded, Christian called to him, "You can bring them to me after all. I'll take Sophia's boxes to her when she returns." When Thomas hesitated, Christian unfolded his arms and dropped them to his sides with a growl. "For heaven’s sake, I'm living here too. Jackson and I have been friends since college. I'm not going to steal her sewing machine."

  Thomas grunted. "Suit yourself."

  With Sophia's items securely in his room, Christian questi
oned himself. How was he going to explain this if she asked? And what if she was gone for the day and he was left to step around the maze of boxes he'd collected without much thought?

  He swiped a palm down the gristle of his beard, the sound of it rustling in his ears. Nearly missed the sound of a nearby door clicking open and shutting with finality. Christian glanced at the door then back at the packages.

  Already?

  He padded down the hall, regretting that he'd neglected to put on his shoes. He didn't normally wear them when writing. Why bother, right?

  Sophia's smile greeted him, then faltered. "Christian."

  "I see that you're thrilled."

  She shook her head and tsked, shaming him. "I was just expecting ... oh, never mind. Come in!"

  Her brilliant smile had returned, but he held up a hand. "I forgive you for not being more excited to see me. Just came by to let you know that my suite is filled with boxes that are addressed to you ... m'lady."

  The way she stomped one petite foot and rolled her eyes nearly made his knees buckle. He soldiered on. "Now that you're back, I'll bring them to you."

  She hesitated and her eyes darted to the hall. "Oh, but I hate to bother you with them—there are so many."

  Secretly, he was grateful to have anything but Burns's voicemail to deal with right now. "It's no problem. Put one of those pointy heels in the door and I'll be right back."

  He lugged two boxes stacked on top of each other down the hall wondering why he hadn't slipped Thomas a twenty to leave the cart. No matter. He was young. Virile. Sitting at a desk writing all day was not akin to being a couch potato—no matter how many times he'd been punched in the shoulder by a buddy to prove otherwise. So what if he wasn't cut with ridges? What woman wanted to be sliced open with those when he went in for a kiss?

  Sophia cleared her throat, and he realized he'd been standing in the parlor of her suite holding those two boxes for he didn't know how long. He flashed her a smile as if to say, I've been waiting for you.

  "Please, Christian. Just put them anywhere. I don't have time right now to open them anyway."

  "You got it." He pushed the boxes into the corner, went back to his suite to gather more, and returned a few minutes later.

  Sophia walked into the parlor wearing a different outfit—a sleek skirt paired with a sleeveless ruffled blouse. She held a necklace in her hand. "Would you?"

  "Of course." Christian took the delicate gold chain from her hands and stepped behind her. She had scooped up her shiny brunette hair and twisted it high above her nape, allowing him access to the back of her long and slender neck. A sweet scent of floral reached his senses and the clasp of her necklace taunted him, but he wouldn't be riled. Both his mother and sister had asked this of him, and he would not allow himself to be vexed by a flimsy piece of metal!

  "Are you able to do it?" she asked.

  "Not to worry. I'm an expert at necklace clasping."

  "Oh, are you now?"

  A bead of perspiration bubbled along his temple, and he nearly gave up, when at last—success. "There! See?" He turned her around by the shoulders. "And you doubted me."

  Her smile dazzled, the upward tip of her chin drawing him like a magnet, her mouth curved into a crescent. "I would nev—"

  A rap on the open door. A male voice. "Am I interrupting?"

  Sophia spun around. "Wade. You're here."

  Christian took a step back and put his hands into his pockets. The guy's suit was atypical for this beach town. He'd seen plenty of tailored suits like it in New York. Shoot, he'd owned a few and probably still had one. Somewhere.

  Sophia stepped quickly to the door and touched the guy—Wade—on his forearm. "Wade, this is Christian, one of Jackson's oldest friends."

  "Hey, I'm not that old," Christian cracked. He shook Wade's hand. Firm. Confident. Would make a great antagonist in his next book ...

  "A pleasure," Wade said. He turned to Sophia. "I was planning to call but had to dash up to my room so I thought I'd pick you up on the way down. Ready to go?"

  Sophia's gaze met Christian's, her apology shining through.

  "I was on my way out anyway." Christian tapped a naked toe on one of the boxes he delivered. "That's the last of them. You two kids have fun now."

  "Thank you for delivering my boxes, Christian," he heard her say as he exited Sophia's suite. "I owe you!"

  In front of his own door, Christian paused. His heart hammered in his chest. Unease slithered around his insides.

  He'd been off his game for weeks. Months, really. Had only finally found momentum yesterday, all of a sudden, in fact, when he'd knocked out nearly four thousand words in one morning. Exhilarating. Therapeutic.

  Terrifying.

  He swallowed. He should walk right inside and do it all over again. But then again, lightning rarely struck twice. Or so he'd been told.

  He glanced down the hall. Sophia and what's-his-face had yet to emerge. Not that it was any of his business. He had a book to write. Remember? And a fire to put out where his agent was concerned. He exhaled roughly, then fished his key card out of his pocket, allowing it to hover in front of the key reader.

  Click. Laughter. He slid a glance down the hall just as the door to Sophia's suite opened wide. Christian shoved the key card back into his pocket, turned away from his room, and darted through the fire escape doors. He took the stairs two at a time, wondering all the while where he'd go when he finally hit the first floor.

  Chapter 4

  The Pacific Ocean crested and surged, drenching Sophia with possibilities. They'd taken the coast—Pacific Coast Highway—into Santa Monica after Wade checked his GPS and learned about a wreck to avoid on the 101 freeway south. The water, blue and endless, kept her from vomiting.

  Because, unfortunately, Wade drove like a maniac while talking on the phone to clients and weaving in and out of traffic on the winding highway. By the time the ride was over, Sophia was drenched all right, but from sweat.

  "We're here." Wade unclicked his seat belt. "Why don't you come up and wait inside the air-conditioned building while I have my meeting?"

  Sophia uncurled her hands, which she'd kept clenched in her lap, stretching her fingers to allow the blood to reflow through them. They exited the parking garage and entered the stream of pedestrians traversing the sidewalks near Third Street Promenade.

  She stopped. "If you don't mind, I think I'd like to walk."

  He frowned. Everything about him screamed cover of GQ . The wavy hair, cut of his suit, sunglasses. Two blondes in shorts, tanks, and flip flops passed him on the sidewalk, turning their chins at the same time, like synchronized swimmers.

  "Tell you what," he said, oblivious. "I'll text you the moment I'm done, and we'll meet back at this spot. A word to the wise—this place is bigger than it looks." He pointed at her heels. "Your feet could get pretty tired in those."

  "Wade, you don't have to worry about me. I've been walking everywhere my entire life. Italy, New York, everywhere."

  He crinkled his brow. "You do drive, Sophia, right?"

  "Actually, no, I do not."

  "You have a driver's license, but you prefer not to drive. That's what you meant, correct?"

  "Not correct."

  His mouth hung open.

  "I do have an ID card, of course."

  He crossed his arms and leaned back slightly, his gaze sweeping over her. "My grandmother didn't drive. She's the only adult I've ever known who didn't have a driver's license."

  "She sounds like a lovely woman."

  He grinned now. "Indeed."

  He left her there to wander, the sun on her shoulders, warming her. High-end retail stores mingled with mom-and-pop shops, the vibe bustling and touristy. She stepped inside one store and breathed in the scent of hand-poured candles. In another store, she admired the glimmer of polished silver.

  Back in the throng, Sophia meandered past street singers busking, grateful for the chance to forget about all she'd been thrust into over
the past months. She ducked into a wine bar, longing to sit at a patio table and people watch with a glass of prosecco. If she were in Italy ... She let the thought linger as the waiter hovered, but ultimately, with plans to visit potential vendors later that afternoon, she ordered an iced coffee instead.

  Just beyond the low railing between her and the promenade, a man in black-and-white striped pants and a wife beater stepped into the center of the crowd and unrolled a thin mat. He flipped over onto his arms for a handstand. After a second or two, he put one arm behind his back and continued to balance on the remaining arm. Not one teeter or totter. She pulled a sketchpad from her oversized bag and began to draw.

  The waiter brought her coffee, but she barely noticed. She drew the length of the performer's arm, the thick cords of his muscles, the jut of his chin, the strength of his hand, his fingers spread wide, unyielding. Though no music played on the street, she heard notes in her head. Pachelbel. Tchaikovsky. Cherubini.

  "Where did you learn to draw like that?"

  "Scusami?" The question had broken her concentration and she'd been so absorbed, she'd lapsed into Italian. In this sidewalk café with its streets teeming with visitors, she could have easily been back in Florence.

  "You drew that so quickly." He was an older man, short-cropped hair, gray—almost shorn—his entire ensemble black: black button-down collared shirt, black slacks, black shoes. In the middle of summer. Perhaps he was on staff.

  "I've been drawing my whole life." She glanced at her sketch, then back to the man. "It's not that good."

  He reached for it. "May I?"

  Sophia hesitated, a familiar tension creeping up her neck. As he examined her drawing more closely, she looked away, fighting off a sudden and desperate need to pull a cloak around her body, covering herself.

  "You are quite talented. Thank you for sharing your art."

  She nodded a thank you, though a smile was less forthcoming. Her dalliance with paper and pencil had been less than successful. A poor-quality replication of real life.

  "May I call you sometime?"